


I chime in with haven't you people ever heard of

by QueSeraAwesome



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Anal Fingering, Established Relationship, Goddamnit Palomo, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Life-Affirming Sex, Light Angst, M/M, Mirrors, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, RvB Smut Week, Semi-Public Sex, Serious Injuries, Stress Relief, getting caught, season 13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 02:12:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11979906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome
Summary: There are twelve private rooms on this housing unit's floor, and they all share the same bathroom.Or at least. They're meant to.





	I chime in with haven't you people ever heard of

**Author's Note:**

> check the end for some notes if you have concerns regarding second-hand embarrassment and getting walked in on.  
> This was partially inspired by that whole "shit we don't have lube put your dick away we have to go to walgreens" post floating around tumblr a while back. Because, you know, that's not the only solution.  
> Hints of voice kink and temperature play, but not enough for a tag.

The floor bathroom door is locked, and Wash is not amused.

“This is a public bathroom, soldier,” he calls through the door in the most no-nonsense voice he has. “For the entire floor. To share. There had better be a good reason this is locked.”

There’s no reply. God, someone better not have accidentally locked it shut again, he hates having to track down Bitters to get him to lockpick the thing again.

He hammers again. No reply. Maybe someone really did lock it behind them on accident.

“If I have to call someone to get this open there will be a lot more trouble than if you just unlock the door. I know it’s hard to find some privacy on a military base, but to deprive the entire floor use of the bathroom—“

There’s a loud click of the door unlocking.

“Jesus Christ, shut up,” Tucker’s voice mutters through the door. “You’ll wake the whole floor.”

“It’s 2 p.m.” Wash yelps incredulously.

“Yeah, whatever,” Tucker mumbles.

His footsteps moving away from the door, and Wash glares at the door with growing suspicion.

After a long moment, Tucker calls out, “You not coming in, after all that?”

“Why was the door locked?” Wash demands, trepidation growing. “Were you--”

“Fuck, no,” and Tucker actually sounds annoyed. “Christ, just get in here already,”

He glares at him once Wash steps inside and closes the door behind him. His arms are crossed tight over his chest as he stands over by the sinks.

“Why would I need this whole place to masturbate?” Tucker asks incredulously.

Wash looks at the row of empty showers, the line of toilet stalls, the previously locked door, and then at Tucker, standing alone in the middle of the room. He raises a confused eyebrow.

“So….”

He lets the question hang. Tucker shrugs, uncomfortable, and turns away from him.

“Just…” He sighs. “Just needed some space to breathe.”

Tucker doesn’t look at him, gaze focused on his own fist resting on the sink countertop. After a moment of tense silence, he turns on the tap and begins to wash his hands.

Wash takes in the tense line of his spine, the hunch of his shoulders, the worry lines bit in around his eyes. Annoyance falls out of him, replaced by concern.

He reaches out and flicks the lock back on.

“Hey,” Wash says, stepping closer. “What’s going on?”

Tucker, to his credit, doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know what Wash’s talking about. He just sighs, gustily in that way he does before he digs deep and leaves himself bare, leaves himself vulnerable in that way that always leaves Wash breathless and envious.

“It’s just… a lot,” Tucker says, letting his sudsy hands dangle in the sink. “I thought I was used to this Great Hero, True Warrior bullshit, but it keeps finding new ways to fuck me over.”

Wash raises an eyebrow at him. He returns to his washing with renewed vigor, his attention to some supposed dirt under his fingernails telling Wash all he needs to know.

“The way I see it, we’re lucky to have both you and your sword,” he replies. He keeps the tone of his voice deliberately light. “Having the ability to control or shut down these temples, that could make the difference here on Chorus. And if it weren’t for you, all we’d have is, well…” e lets his tone curl with amusement, even though he personally likes the guy, “Doyle.”

“See, that’s the thing,” Tucker insists, still avoiding Wash’s eyes. “One of our best bets for surviving this thing is by keeping the swords away from Felix and Locus. Making sure they can’t use them. And the only person who can really keep them from getting my sword is _me_.”

Wash shakes his head.

“You’re not alone in this, Tucker. We’ve all got your back.”

“They’re gonna be gunning for me,” Tucker continues, his eyes fixed on his hands under the spray, the way the water is rinsing them clean. “If I die, I could take all of you with me. What if I screw up?”

His voice goes high and sharp on the end of that sentence and Wash presses closer until Tucker’s shoulder is pressed against his chest. They both exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Wash murmurs into the thin space between them. Pretends he feels as certain as his voice sounds. “I won't let it.”

Tucker sighs, shakes his head, and turns off the tap.

“That's not your job.”

Wash snorts, the absurdity of the statement overwhelmingly funny.

“Technically, I think I'm unemployed,” he jokes.

Tucker doesn't laugh. His eyes flicker up to meet Wash’s for maybe the first time this whole conversation.

“Wash, it's not your job.”

And now he’s not making any sense. Wash gives him a look full of incredulity, pulls him around to face him.

“Tucker,” he says, “I'm not going to let him hurt you.”

“Shit, man, I’ve pretty much got all of Chorus ready to take a bullet for me,” Tucker says (and Tucker hates that, oh, Wash knows that he hates that, how it scares him and how he has to let it happen), “I’m not saying you’re gonna _let them_ , we’re all gonna do all we can to fuck them up instead of letting them fuck _us_ up. I’m just saying. If something did happen. It wouldn’t be on you.”

And now Wash is the one who can’t meet his eyes. Tucker turns back to the sink, drying his hands on a paper towel and chucking it into the trash. Wash steps over and behind him, bracketing him in with his hands resting on the sink counter. Tucker leans back against him and Wash closes his eyes with the relief of it. He noses a stray dread out of the way so he can tuck his face down behind Tucker’s ear and breathes in the warm smell of his skin and the sharp scent of cheap soap.

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” he repeats.

“You don't know that,” Tucker whispers.

“It won't,” he insists. He lets go of the counter, wraps his grip around Tucker’s hips instead. Better. “I'll be there.”

“You can't control that, Wash,” and strangely it sounds like Tucker is comforting him and not the other way around. “I mean, we’re gonna try but….we _can’t_.”

Wash lets the words fall like stones inside him, heavy and uncomfortable, but he lets them rest. He needs to be okay with that. He has to find a way to be okay with that.

Because he can't protect him. Not the way he wants to. He can't promise that Tucker won't fall with the mercs keeping him in their crosshairs. He can promise his skill, and his experience, and his body to stand between Tucker and harm but he can guarantee nothing. And he will, they both know given the chance he would break his own heart, shatter his own bone and rend his own muscle in place of Tucker's, give his own death and not just because Tucker's death is so closely tied to the death of them all. No, that's only the surface of it, the tip of the iceberg gleaming among the waves.

He presses in closer, his lips sliding chaste against Tucker’s neck, and Tucker’s breathing changes so subtly he wouldn't have noticed were he not _right there_. But he is, and he does, and the _wanting_ pierces through him like lightning, the heaviness between them transmuting itself into something else entirely. He presses a kiss against Tucker’s neck, his jaw, the side of his cheek, every tender place he knows, and Tucker goes easy and pliable against him. _Yes_. His grip tightens on Tucker’s hips.  This is what he wants. Wash wants that.

Wash watches Tucker’s face in the mirror, the way his dark lashes sweep under his closed eyes, the way his brow furrows and smooths from some internal tension. He watches Tucker’s teeth sink hard into his bottom lip. 

He presses his lips to Tucker’s pulse point and lingers there, mouth open, and wet, and hungry.

Tucker gasps. The sound echoes against the tiled walls, punctuated, like a gun shot. Like he’s been cut open.

“Fuck,” Tucker whispers into the charged quiet of the room.  He reaches back and settles his hand over Wash’s on his hip, digging Wash’s fingers harder into his skin. “Yeah.”

It’s like something snaps between them and Wash wants to touch him everywhere at once. Tucker presses back against him, tilting his head to bare the most sensitive places on his neck to Wash’s mouth. Wash brings his arms up around him, pulling him in tight. One hand comes up, skating over Tucker’s clothed nipples and making him whine, the other ducking down to ghost over the rapidly growing bulge in his pants. Tucker bucks his hips up into him and Wash feels him hardening under his fingers.

I can't protect him, Wash thinks, almost hysterically, as he smears open mouthed kisses against his neck, as his fingers fumble with Tucker's fly. Or he could, as best he could, but that isn't what Tucker wants from him. That isn't what Tucker _wants_ and instead of clutching the idea back to the center of his chest, Wash lets it go. He's practicing at letting things go he'd rather snatch back close, even when his hands cramp in protest.

Instead he clutches Tucker to him, one arm a bar across his chest, Tucker's head tipped back against his shoulder and chest. This he can do, this he can give, this Tucker can give him, the sharp press of his own fingers in Wash's arm, holding him just as tightly.

“Let me,” Wash gasps against his skin and it's more question than demand, more plea than question. “Let me, Tucker. Tucker. Tucker.”

He can't stop the refrain, his name on his lips, pressed into the curve of his neck and the hollow of his collarbones, the wing of his shoulder and the shadow behind his ear. “Tucker.”

“Wash,” Tucker sighs out, eyes clenched closed. Wash shoves his fatigues down and out of the way.

Tucker’s breath leaves him raggedly when Wash wraps his fingers around him, hot and dry in his palm. Fingertips flicking over his slit on the upstroke the way that always drives him crazy. Tucker bites his lip, trying to keep quiet, hips canting up into his grip and Wash can’t decide where he wants to look most. At the arch of Tucker’s neck, the push of his cockhead between the channel of his fingers, or the reflection in the mirror where he can see as well as feel him shudder as it ripples along Tucker's skin. There’s so much of Tucker, doubled back at him in the mirror and he is beautiful everywhere.

His hand too dry, an edge of discomfort starting to infiltrate the sounds dropping from Tucker’s lips. He reaches for one of the lotion dispensers, hurriedly empties a few pumps into his palm. He doesn’t register the chill of the lotion before his hand is back on Tucker, stroking up and down and shit he should have warmed it up first—

Tucker’s eyes fly open, a stuttering sob of pleasure falling out of him and his hip judder into Wash’s hand— he’s shaking all over.

“Sorry,” Wash whispers, kissing an apology into his shoulder. Tucker shakes his head frantically.

“S’good,” Tucker forces out. “It’s good, it’s--” Wash strokes all the way down to the base, the lotion smearing against his balls and Tucker shivers violently, pressing back against Wash’s body from knees to shoulders. “Fuck, Wash.”

Wash jerks him off fast and hard, no thought for anything other than making Tucker feel good here and now. Wash’s own erection is pressed against Tucker’s hip, but he registers it mostly as an afterthought, so focused he is on Tucker in his arms, under his hands. He wants to light Tucker up from the inside with pleasure, fill him full of it to the tips of his fingers and ends of his hair. He wants every one of Tucker’s cells to sing _good_ at him in a full choir of agreement until everything outside this room and them is drowned out, until they both slip under the waves of it together.

Tucker moans, staccato Oh’s out of rhythm with the tempo of Wash’s hands. Of Tucker’s hips bucking into his grip. They’re both frantic, a little out of control, desperately chasing sensation as if it’ll be lost. Wash adjusts his grip, tightening around the head on the upstroke and Tucker bites his lip again, tossing his head.

He slaps one palm to the sink top, head bowed in towards his chest, half bending himself over the countertop.

 “Holy shit, Wash,” he bites out. “You need to fuck me. You need to fuck me right now, I swear to god.”

He reaches back and yanks, hauling Wash closer, as if there were any closer to get, as if his words alone weren’t enough to communicate what he wanted, how badly he wanted. Tucker doesn’t let go, keeps pulling until Wash’s hips are flush tight against his ass, until he’s bowed over Tucker’s back. Wash gasps at the sudden friction, eyes snapping up to meet Tucker’s in the mirror.

Tucker’s eyes are burn back at him, black and intent with hunger. He can’t help grinding forward then, burying his face in Tucker’s shoulder at the too-much-not-enough friction of Tucker’s ass rolling back against his still-clothed cock. Control, he thinks, stifling the urge to bend Tucker fully over the counter and just rut against him until one or both of them beg. Control.

“Yeah,” he says, blinking away the dizzying want. “Hold on,” and pushes the fatigues further down Tucker’s thighs. Tucker moans in relief at his easy agreement and rushes to help.

The lotion will have to do, Wash thinks, reaching for the dispenser again. Without condoms or proper lube he can’t fuck Tucker here no matter how much either of them want.

“It’s still cold,” he reminds him. Goosebumps shoot up his arm as he makes sure his fingers are properly lubed. “Want me to warm it up first?”

Tucker shakes his head emphatically.

A stray thought about some smart comment about this new temperature thing slides across his mind and is quickly batted away. He’s got better things to focus on.

He uses the pad of his thumb to circle the pucker of his entrance, soft in case the chill of the lotion here against such sensitive skin crosses into the bad kind of too much, but Tucker has always loved that too-much, that oversensitive, overstimulated shriek of pleasure that comes from taking it just that little bit farther.

“Shit,” Tucker whispers, voice breaking apart that way Wash loves.

He wants to go slow, gentle, to work Tucker to bonelessness, but Tucker’s bracing himself with one hand against the mirror and the other against the counter’s edge whispering, “Yes, yes, yes, Wash, _yes_ ,” so he presses inside until his knuckles brush Tucker’s rim and Tucker is making little high pitched sounds, face pressed to the crook of his elbow.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes, “ _Oh fuck,”_ and Wash absolutely has to pull out all the way out to the fingertip before thrusting in again, the third “Oh, _fuck_ ,” ending on a drawn out whine.

He works him with one finger, and then two, stretching and twisting and circling against his inner walls until Tucker has almost wilted onto the sink-top. His teeth have sunk into his lower lip again, muffling the sounds he wants to make and Wash desperately wants to hear. Tucker writhes against him and it’s perfect (he’s perfect) and Wash wants it to last forever, which , of course, is why it doesn’t.

“Hello?”

Wash and Tucker both freeze. Their eyes meet in the mirror. The bathroom seems to yawn around them, empty stalls and shower cubicles echoing silence at them, accusatory. The lock on the door rattles again.

“Is anyone in there?” Palomo’s voice yells from the hall outside. “You accidentally locked the door! I can’t get in.”

“Go away, Palomo,” Tucker grits out in a good approximation of his regular Palomo-related annoyance voice, and not his getting-fucked voice at all.

Wash tries to keep his wrist still, not to brush any of the sensitive places that will make Tucker give them away because while Tucker has always been a bit of an exhibitionist and this probably counts as semi-public sex there is absolutely nothing remotely hot about this situation ie: getting caught having sex by your immediate subordinate, who also happens to be the most irritating person in existence, and also Palomo.

“Captain!” Palomo cheers, apparently oblivious or simply used to Tucker’s aggravation at his presence. “Oh, hey, good, it’s you! Could you unlock the door?”

“Palomo,” Tucker repeats, teeth grinding audibly. “ _Get lost.”_

Wash closes his eyes and exhales impatiently out from his nose. Because Palomo is not going to get lost, is incapable of getting lost unless you actually need him to be somewhere. In which case he will be nowhere to be found, having gotten confused trying to arrive early and will have no idea as to where he actually is. Because Palomo. And sure enough, he’s still outside the door, still talking.

“See, but, this is the only bathroom on this floor and, look, I’m just saying it was mac’n’cheese day today in the mess and I’m a little bit lactose-intolerant, so if you could just unlock the door?”

“Jesus Christ,” Tucker whispers, butting his head against the mirror in frustration, and Wash has had just about enough of this.

“Lieutenant Palomo,” he growls, channeling every drill instructor he ever had, “ _Go. Away.”_

He intends to continue— because he’s trained enough with Palomo to know the kid will argue, tends to need a specific deterrent described to him in detail to get him moving once he’s hit the whining stage, but he never gets the chance.

Because as soon as the drill instructor snarl leaves his throat, Tucker shoves back against him, grinding down onto his fingers, the stuttering groan that escapes his lips leaving no doubt as to anyone’s imaginations exactly what they’re doing in here. It rings, echoes against the tile and there’s no way anyone in this building didn’t hear that.

Wash blinks, a little stunned, and not just because of the view of Tucker twisting his hips desperately back against him.

The meek little “Yes, sirs,” and scampering away of footsteps is forgotten almost as soon as it fades away.

“Did you just get turned on by me chewing out Palomo?” Wash asks.

“Shut up and fuck me,” Tucker retorts. Wash can see the tinges of a flush staining his cheeks, which never happens unless he’s really blushing hard.

And Wash just has to wrap an arm around him and pull Tucker back up into his chest, close enough to feel his lungs heave and his heart beat.

“Think you can stay quiet?” he hisses in Tucker’s ear, going for the drill instructor tone from before. He’s not sure if he manages it. Tucker shudders against him again.

“Bit late for that,” he answers.

Wash can’t exactly argue with that, so instead he curls his fingers, seeking out that small bundle of nerves. Tucker’s back bows, and he probably would have face-planted onto the sink if Wash weren’t there to hold him up.

“Ah- Ah— Aaah!” Tucker cries out, “Just like that, just like that, shit—“

So he does it again and again, circling and thrusting until Tucker’s sobbing out curses and the world outside this room fades away again.

“Fuck, Wash, faster, harder, more, please _, please,_ ” Tucker begs. Wash gives him a third finger and the noise he makes is almost an inhuman keen. “Your fucking _hands_ , Wash, God.”

Wash grits his teeth, unable to think of any reply in words. Tucker’s always been the one for talking, the dirtiest, stupidest thing spilling out of him like it’s nothing at all, like it’s easy. Wash has to make do speaking with his hands, his body, his mouth, anything with words coming out awkward and stilted. He presses a kiss to the side of Tucker’s head and redoubles his efforts, determined to reduce him to a complete wanton mess. One of Tucker’s hands catches on his thigh and almost claws into his leg, holding on for dear life.

“Wash, fuck, fuck me, _please_ , I want you so _bad_ ,” Tucker sobs, “Fuck me with your cock, I want your cock, Wash-“

Wash’s erection throbs at Tucker’s words, painfully hard and painfully constricted and _god_ he wants it too. He wants it and he can’t have it. They can’t have it right now.

“Fuck, Wash, c’mon, _c’mon_ ,” Tucker babbles.  “I need— I want you. Fuck me so good, you always fuck me so good, you take care of me, c’mon, please-“

Wash grits his teeth and shakes his head. Even if he were willing to forgo the condom, this cheap military hand lotion wouldn’t hold up for fucking.

“Can’t,” he forces himself to say. “Tucker, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can _yes you can Wash please—“_

“I can’t,” he repeats, a tinge of desperation bubbling under his words. “I can’t, Tucker, we don’t have a condom, or any real _lube_ and I— I’m not going to hurt you.”

Tucker whines, high and sharp, hips still rocking against Wash’s fingers. He knows better than to ask Wash to risk hurting him. He turns to press his face into Wash’s neck, little cut-off whimpers tickling the skin there.

“I want you so _bad_ ,” he whispers, like a secret or a confession.

“I know,” Wash soothes, “I want it too, but…” and he knows it isn’t going to happen, but the part of his brain still hardwired to his dick is still frantically calling in ways to make this work. “Unless we got back to one of the rooms—“

Tucker shakes his head, eyes still closed.

“I’m not gonna make it that long, man,” he says, a burble of resigned humor in his voice. His breathing rises and falls against Wash’s chest.

“I know,” Wash says, dotting quick kisses up and down his neck. “Just let me take care of you, okay?”

 Tucker nods, face still tucked into the crook of Wash's neck. 

“How do you want to come?”

 He can feel Tucker's lungs heave against his chest, feel him clenching still around his fingers. 

“Fuck me more.”

 So he does, pulling from his memories every trick and tip that had ever gotten a reaction out Tucker, twisting his wrist and fluttering his fingers, circling and thrusting until he's worked Tucker back up again, curses and praise dripping from his lips in hushed bursts. Wash hears them all, tucks them all deep down below his breastbone, to be taken out and poured over later. 

He unhooks Tucker’s fingers from his thigh and laces their fingers together, Tucker’s hand outside his own, and bringing their hands to his cock. Tucker groans when he wraps their hand around it. Tucker gets the idea and curls his hand around Wash’s, tightening their grip and jerking him off in counterpoint to the rhythm Wash has set. Wash lets him lead the way, squeezing or speeding up as Tucker guides him, until finally Tucker is gasping and shaking against him.

“Wash,” he hisses, “Wash-“

And he comes, messy over their fists, going limp against him, and again, he might have fallen were it not for Wash to hold him up. Wash keeps fucking him with his fingers through it, gentling and eventually pulling out as he begins to soften in his hand.

“Holy fuck,” Tucker mouths almost soundlessly against his neck, still trembling. Wash scoots them a little closer the sink so he can rinse his hands, shakes them dry and then wraps his arms around them. Tucker pokes peevishly at him, squirming in his arms until he lets him turn so they’re chest to chest.

Tucker kisses him messily, mouth slack and slow, but it’s good all the same. He can feel Tucker rebuilding himself in his arms, standing straighter, starting to take his own weight back.

“You’re somethin’ else, Wash,” he says against his lips.

Wash has no idea what that means, but Tucker is easy and pliable against him so he just kisses him again. Tucker kisses back, jaw pushing at his own until he surrenders and lets him lead the way.

Tucker pours heat into the kiss, and Wash’s cock throbs, still hard and trapped in his pants. Tucker palms him through his fatigues and he has to stifle his groan into the kiss.

“You don’t have to,” he breaks the kiss to say, but Tucker cuts him off with another kiss, and another, and another until he’s almost forgotten what he was saying.

“Don’t start that self-sacrificial bullshit,” Tucker murmurs against his lips. “Let _me_ , this time.”

And Wash will let him. Tucker will help him undress, clever fingers slipping his clothes off and away. Wash will pull him into the shower after him, holding Tucker to his chest as they kiss under the lukewarm spray. Tucker will jerk him off and kiss him deep and Wash will come with eyes closed and mouth open and everything will still be the same outside. Palomo will have probably told at least fifteen people by now and Grif will probably show up to chew them out/mock them within the hour. Felix and Locus will still be after them, Chorus will still be in horrific danger from itself as well as from Charon. They’ll still be in the middle of a civil war, in a warzone, and there is every chance they won’t survive beyond two tomorrows.

But for now, they have each other. He has Tucker, his hands against his skin, his voice whispering filthy encouragement in his ear. He has Tucker. And Tucker has him.

For now, he has this, and it’s more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> So note, this fic contains two people choosing to have sex in a locked public bathroom where anyone walking by could here. Someone does knock on the door and catch them in the act, but they are not walked in on.


End file.
